


bedhead

by transharry (fortyfiveangrycats)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Will Draco Ever Learn Harry's Middle Name, hand holding, i ? love deamus, i never really think about. anything when im writing fics lmao, just sayin......., side deamus for like 2 seconds, so? im so sorry if this is dumb, taking place during sixth year, this fic is so ......... gay, this is not really canon compliant and its wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortyfiveangrycats/pseuds/transharry
Summary: Draco’s heart stops. His hair. His hair . Shit. If he forgot to do his hair this morning, then…“Quick, a mirror, anything, ” he hisses, looking for something to see his own reflection with and confirm that the rumors are true. He picks up Goyle’s copper cauldron, peering to see if the non-rusted part would provide a sepia-tinted image of Draco with decent hair. However, when he actually sees his reflection, his hair is disheveled, curly, and a wild mess upon his head.





	bedhead

**Author's Note:**

> i hope u like this everyone!!!!!!!! :-) i tried my best but. lmao who knows if its too ooc
> 
> edit because I FORGOT TO ADD THE FUCKING SUMMARY, IM AN IDIOT

Draco lays back in his bed with the hint of a smile on his face as he pulls the blankets over his chest. Blaise raises his eyebrow at Draco, but dismisses whatever he was planning to say, getting into his own bed and pulling up his covers. There’s a grumbled “goodnight” that Draco doesn’t respond to, and he lets his thoughts drift to calm his mind. It doesn’t quite work, however, he’s _Draco Malfoy,_ which means he’s got to think of something that’ll just rile him up all over again.

 

 _This time tomorrow, I might have a boyfriend,_ Draco thinks. He doubts it, though, for why would _Harry Freaking (What’s his middle name? James, or something basic like that) Potter_ like _him?_ But still, he’d promised himself at the beginning of the week that he would ask Potter out by the end of the week, and here it was.

 

It had been Pansy’s idea, as it always was. She’d had a massive crush on Draco in third year, but upon rejection, she realized that it wasn’t because Draco didn’t _like_ her, it was because Draco didn’t like _her_ . Or _girls_ in general. She then became the prime console during Draco’s discovering of himself, but she had known all along that Draco was in love with none other than his supposed enemy. When Draco finally told her about his crush on Harry at the end of fourth year, she had let out the most exasperated sigh.

 

“Thank _Merlin,”_ she said. “I fucking knew it.” And when Draco asked how, she proceeded to explain that “oh, Draco, you have no idea— you look at him like Granger looks at new textbooks. You’re always talking about him. Always. ‘Oh, look, it’s Potter. He looks exceptionally stupid today.’ And when we told you that we _got the idea that you were disgusted by him,_ you continued to talk about him at least once per conversation. Crabbe probably knows, and his brain is probably microscopic.”

 

When Draco asked if Harry had figured it out, Pansy shook her head no, saying that “no, he’s incredibly thick. He probably wouldn’t even figure it out if you told him.” Which was a huge relief. So, of course, Draco proceeded to hide his feelings and pine over Potter for two more years, leading up to now.

 

Draco can just imagine the fury in his father’s eyes (“A _boy,_ Draco, and _worst of all, Potter?”)_ but of course, he’s planned out fifteen billion possible responses (“I don’t give a shit” being his favorite). His mother wouldn't care. His mother _doesn’t_ care. She’s known how smitten with Harry that Draco’s been since third year— the first to find out. Goddamn mothers and their abilities to read their kids like an open book.

 

At some point, Draco drifts off into some Harry-filled dream (particularly involving school dances. Why can’t Hogwarts host more of those) and forgets how much his mind had been racing. Finally, some peace and quiet. And Harry.

 

+

 

When Draco wakes up, it's a gasp, a “fuck, fuck, _fuuuuuuck,”_ and a “when does class start? I don’t give a shit, I have to _run.”_ He throws on a shirt, pulls his grey vest overtop, ties his tie, slips on dress pants and shoes, brushes his teeth, and legitimately sprints down the corridor. Had his friends left him to sleep in on purpose? They were a bunch of imbeciles, so probably not— but Draco would still individually kick their asses once he caught up to them.

 

As he turns at the hall leading to the potions classroom, a Prefect shouts at him to stop running in the halls, which he disregards, swinging open the door and setting his bag down in front of his table. He acknowledges Professor Slughorn, who nods to him whilst explaining the task for class. Draco can’t help but feel like there’s unnecessary attention being brought to him (attention is nice, but this is unsettling).

 

He flips through _Advanced Potion Making_ to find the page that Slughorn is reading off of. He doesn’t really listen along, as Slughorn tends to ramble aimlessly, and Draco prefers reading the pages themselves. He finds the footnotes on the potions to be far more interesting than Slughorn talking about himself, tracing his fingers along the illustrations in the book. He’s read through it a few times before (what’s wrong with a bit of light reading, right?), but every time, he picks up on something new.

 

He hears whispering at the table across from him, and when he flicks his gaze towards the direction of the sound, he sees Harry looking sheepish as Ron and Hermione chat about something over Harry. They look to him every few seconds, surprised and untranslatable expressions plastered on their faces. Then, as if on cue the three of them all slowly glance over at Draco.

 

Draco puts on his best scowl, Hermione crosses her arms, and Ron scoffs. But Harry, _Harry._ He hasn’t picked up on falling under any sort of facade to fit in with the expressions of his friends. He’s just sitting at his stool with a dumb, puzzled look on his face. Harry runs his fingers through his ridiculous hair, and Draco lets his guard down long enough to smirk at him a bit. He swears he sees a blush forming on Harry’s cheeks, but Slughorn announces the start of the potion-brewing session, and as everyone pulls out their cauldrons to set them on the tables, both Draco and Harry are too distracted to continue whatever flirting that may-or-may-not-have occurred.

 

Slughorn nods his head as he says, “I’m expecting to see a very nice Elixir to Induce Euphoria from all of you,” and with a wave of his wand, he opens his cabinet of ingredients. Draco stands up to follow along with his class, rushing to get to the ingredients first, collecting them in a messy handful. He’s careful to pick up the porcupine quills first so not to prick himself later on, and the difficulty of carrying multiple sopophorous beans in the same hand proved exactly why. He wonders why hadn’t just grabbed his cauldron and placed the ingredients in it just for easy transportation, but it’s too late to turn back now. He grabs his wormwood, peppermint, and shrivelfig, and heads back to his cauldron.

 

The difficult potions that the class had brewed prior had done some wear and tear on his once-beautiful sterling silver cauldron, much to Draco’s dismay. He’d thought of cleaning it, but never had the time, so he’s just continued to go with the tarnish forming at the base of his cauldron. He’s begun to add the shrivelfig into his cauldron for the actual brewing process as the Irish Gryffindor that Draco’s never bothered to learn the name of passes by and snorts out a “nice hair, Malfoy.”

 

Draco takes a step back from his cauldron, to process the comment. A compliment? Not with that tone. But Draco’s hair is the same _every day_. Why does he wait to make any sort of snide remark until a sixth year potions lesson? He looks to his left, at Goyle, who’s bluntly chopping his shrivelfig (fucking idiot), and Goyle looks back at him with probable concern that Draco’s going to shout at him.

 

“So, you don’t know, then?” Goyle shrugs.

 

“Know what?” Malfoy asks. “What have I missed? Has Weasley flung sopophorous beans into my hair or something?” Ron chuckles in the background. Draco really hopes that’s the case, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to be on even worse terms with Harry’s friends prior to asking him out.

 

But Goyle shakes his head no. “No, actually…” he pauses. “I don’t think you did your hair this morning, Malfoy.”

 

Draco’s heart stops. His hair. His _hair_ . _Shit._ If he forgot to do his hair this morning, then…

 

“Quick, a mirror, _anything,_ ” he hisses, looking for something to see his own reflection with and confirm that the rumors are true. He picks up Goyle’s copper cauldron, peering to see if the non-rusted part would provide a sepia-tinted image of Draco with decent hair. However, when he actually sees his reflection, his hair is disheveled, curly, and a wild mess upon his head.

 

He’s always been so _insecure_ about it, especially with his father’s perfectly straight hair (and sexuality, ha ha), but his mother’s family had passed down generations of curly hair. Draco had done his hair with muggle hair products every morning for _years._ And to think… he’d forgotten it because of, what? Harry Potter? Because yes, that was the case. He’d been thinking and worrying too much about asking out Harry to put time into his hair. Not to mention that he was already late, as-is.

 

He must have made some sort of terrified noise, because the classroom has fallen silent with the exception of bubbling potions. Draco scans the room, scowling at every classmate with the audacity to laugh in his presence. He doesn’t think he looks that bad with messy hair (he’s Draco Malfoy, he’s fucking _beautiful_ and he knows it), but with everyone making him the butt of every joke during this class period, he’s overwhelmed. He can’t even bear to look Harry in the eye, knowing full well that he’s having a blast cracking jokes about Draco.

 

“Professor Slughorn,” he says, raising his hand high into the air. Slughorn nods to him, gesturing for him to speak. “May I use the restroom?”

 

“Mister Malfoy,” Professor Slughorn begins, “surely you wouldn’t want to leave your potion unattended? An incomplete potion can prove to be quite dangerous if left to sit for too long. I would advise to continue on with your brewing, unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

 

As Draco’s about to dispute that _yes, this is an emergency,_ when he stops himself. How petty of him to leave the class over his hair. Of course, he totally would, given the chance, but he decides to resume working on his potion. He adds in the porcupine quills, hoping that the shrivelfig juice hadn’t set and would need to be reworked. As he stirs, he listens in to a few conversations around him, groaning as he overhears the lovey-dovey conversation from Ol’ Ireland and Dean Thomas, and sitting up a bit as he hears Harry say his name. Draco pretends not to be paying attention as he adds his peppermint into the cauldron, but he’s eager to know what Harry has to say about him.

 

“No, Ron, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to add peppermint _after_ you stir, not before,” Harry says. Of course he’s moved on with conversation. Typical Potter. Not that Draco’s disappointed (he is). He proceeded with paying attention to his potion instead, attempting to find the best possible way to extract juice from the sopophorous beans. Chopping them doesn’t seem to work well enough, so he puts the beans in a small box and presses them down, and upon seeing his idea’s success, he continues to crush the beans and pour the juice into his cauldron.

 

When the last student has finished brewing their Elixir to Induce Euphoria, Slughorn paces around the room to assess everyone’s work. Draco takes note of the few who have had difficulty with the given task— Ireland’s blown something up again (this is the third time this week), Crabbe’s Elixir has come out as rock solid, and one of the Hufflepuffs has a mess across their workspace.

 

Slughorn has only good things to say about Draco’s work— “Perfect coloration, Mister Malfoy, what a very nice yellow, smells very sweet, too.” But when Slughorn gets around to Harry’s cauldron, his eyes light up. For some reason, Harry’s had a constant streak of brewing perfect potions. He’s always been pretty average at potions, all until this year. He oogles over the rainbow floating on the surface of the brew, and showers Harry in “well done”s and “the Prince of Potions has done it again!” Hermione looks exceptionally bitter about Harry’s success, and Ron pats her on the shoulder to snap her out of glaring at Harry. Slughorn finishes travelling around the classroom, giving compliments to Neville Longbottom, Blaise, and some Ravenclaw girl.

 

“Alright, I’ve assessed each of your Elixirs to Induce Euphoria, and seeing as I have nothing else in your lesson plan today, class is dismissed,” Slughorn announces, and a few students have already leapt out the door and run down the halls.

 

Draco walks with Blaise and Pansy, who are discussing their Elixirs, and Draco’s nodding along. Pansy looks at Draco and raises an eyebrow, and she nudges his shoulder.

 

“What?” He asks, but she shakes her head and shoves him off to his left. “Hey, Pansy, what the fuck—” He’s going to curse Pansy’s nose off. She’s shoved him right into fellow classmates that are leaving the classroom.

 

“Oi, watch it— oh, hey, I was actually hoping to run into you,” says the voice of the person he’s bumped into. When Draco is finally able to collect himself again, he’s making eye contact with Harry Potter.

 

“You were?” Draco asks, trying to look significantly more disgusted than he is in reality (he’s not disgusted at all, and this is really difficult).

 

Harry nods. “Yeah, just… not really in the literal sense, y’know. Parkinson coulda shoved you a little bit lighter.”

 

Draco rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Tell me about it.” They begin to walk down the hall together, and Ron and Hermione pass by with dumbfounded expressions on their faces (probably thinking something to the extent of “Merlin, they’re not trying to kill each other”).

 

Harry looks up at Draco a bit and rubs his temples. “So, at first I was wondering if you were trying to copy my ‘I haven’t gotten sleep in six weeks’ style, but judging by your reaction during potions, I seriously doubt you _intended_ to have that hairstyle, is that right?”

 

Draco nods. “Copy your style? No, that wasn’t it. I was merely thinking too hard about asking you out this morning that I forgot to, first of all, wake up on time for class, and second of all, do my hair. It takes a lot of effort to be a Malfoy, Potter.”

 

Wait. _Fuck._ Did he just…?

 

“Wait, what?” Harry asks, his face scrunching up with confusion.

 

Draco can feel his face heating up, and he makes some sort of uncertain noise before sprinting down the hall, not turning to look back at Harry, no matter how badly he wanted to. He can’t stop his legs from running until he bursts through the doors of the library, where he flops down at one of the tables and sets his bag down on the floor. He takes a few deep breaths, analyzes the previous three minutes, and concludes that he is:

 

  1. about to die
  2. a complete fool
  3. gay (especially for none other than Harry middlename Potter) (he’ll find out that middle name soon)



 

When Draco composes himself and keeps from legitimately losing his cool in the middle of the fucking library, he realises that asking Harry out had been his original plan in the first place, and he dreads the thought of having to see Harry again after their encounter just minutes ago. He groans, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead. He’s ruined his own plan of asking Harry out, he’s ruined any possibility of approaching Harry without feeling like an absolute fool, and he’s ruined the likelihood of a decent mental state for the next two years.

 

He can imagine how Pansy and Blaise will laugh at him when he gets to the Slytherin table for supper, as he explains his attempt and his failure. He can imagine how he’ll burn up when Harry looks at him, how he’ll lose his composure and have to run to the bathroom to escape facing further humiliation. The famous Malfoy move, Get the Fuck Outta Here Before You Get Your Ass Kicked Even More Than It Has Been.

 

He reads the titles of books of the library shelves to calm himself down. Just a way to distract his mind from the darker thoughts, the “he wouldn’t have said yes if you let him answer,” and the “you don’t deserve anyone worth more than a pile of dirt,” and such. He’s tormented with those, and he’s learned to live with them in his time of loving Harry. He curses at himself under his breath.

 

Ten minutes go by, and he doubts that Pansy and Blaise and Crabbe and Goyle have suspected that Draco’s plan has gone dreadfully wrong. He rises from his chair, collecting his bag from the floor, and takes a deep breath before leaving the library. He swears he sees Harry walking by the doorway as he’s leaving, and he does a double take. _No, it’s just me and my stupid brain, constantly thinking about that idiot,_ he thinks, but as he steps through the doorway, Harry’s waiting off to Draco’s left side.

 

Draco frowns. “I’m guessing you’re not here to check out any books, Potter,” he says, and Harry shrugs.

 

“Well, you weren’t really here to look for books, either,” Harry replies without skipping a beat. “I came to talk to you, as you might have guessed.”

 

Draco can feel his stomach sinking through the floor. He wants to rip out his eyes so he can’t see Harry’s expression as they’re having this conversation. Fuck.

 

Harry looks off to the side, almost shyly, and looks back at Draco.

 

“Do you want to go get some butterbeer with me?”

 

Draco perks up (posture-wise, at least, because he still physically looks like he’s about to die) at the suggestion. He nods slowly, making some kind of pained expression.

 

“I fucking hate you,” he says to Harry, and immediately thinks _yeah, that’s exactly how you win over your crush,_ and follows it up with “I really wanted to be the one to ask _you_ out.”

 

Harry sighs. “Well, if you’re going to be that stubborn, _you_ can ask _me_ , since I haven’t really said those specific words.”

 

“Fine then. Do you want to go out with me, Potter?” Although the conversation was sort of leading to a _Harry might actually say yes,_ Draco can’t help but dread the possibility of a rejection. He takes a few tense breaths as Harry’s blatantly teasing him, looking like he needs to take a long time to think about his answer.

 

“Hmm, I’d say… yeah. I’d go out with you, Malfoy. Three Broomsticks?” Harry smirks, and Draco about pisses himself (don’t tell his father about that, please spare his sixteen-year-old dignity).

 

Draco scoffs. “I’m free today, tomorrow, and the rest of my life, god dammit.”

 

Harry smiles at him, a good, genuine smile between the two of them, and Draco returns the gesture by smiling somewhat shyly back at Harry. He musters up enough courage to touch his hand to Harry’s, asking to be held, and Harry laces their fingers together. Draco, completely in shock, nervously shouts “how about seven-thirty?” and when Harry nods, he glows.

 

They walk hand-in-hand for a while, until they reach Slytherin’s common room, and Harry says a quick goodbye before dashing away, the two of them eager to get ready for their date.

 

When Draco enters, his smile gives away everything, and Blaise and Pansy bombard him with questions. He shoots them off, but Pansy hands Draco a little card. When he opens it, it just says “you're gay” with a few galleons taped to the inside. He just shakes his head and laughs.

 

“One date with Potter on us, Draco,” Pansy says, patting Draco on the shoulder. She shoves him away, and he walks to his bed, shuffling through his wardrobe to find the dress shirt to wear on his date. He doesn’t want to dress too formally, of course, it’s _The Three Broomsticks,_ but he’s going on a date, so he unfolds a white dress shirt and sets it on his bed. He decides against changing into a different pair of trousers, ultimately believing that his current trousers contrast and fit together with the shirt he’d picked out. He changes quickly, and after a few minutes of hesitation, he also declares that he is not going to do his hair. Specifically due to the fact that Harry had said that it looked nice.

 

Had he actually said that? (Truthfully, no, he hadn’t, but Draco needs all of the courage he can muster up. And if fake compliments from Harry Potter is what gets him so more courage, than so be it.)

 

When Draco returns back to the common room, Blaise wolf-whistles, and a few of the other Slytherins in the common room turn to look at Draco. He flips Blaise off (grinning from ear to ear, of course) and steps through to doorway, checking that it was close to time for the date. Seven-ten. Twenty minutes to get from Slytherin common room to the Three Broomsticks. That should be enough.

 

Draco tends to be early for things. He likes timing everything right, being at his destination two minutes early just so he can hear the “you haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

 

But this time around, he’s running through the halls (a Prefect yells at him for the second time today), nearly out of breath, and for what? Harry Potter? If he had told his eleven-year-old self that he would be putting in this much effort to impress _Harry Potter_ five years later, his younger self would have been bewildered.

 

He’s always early. But today, he’s just _on time._ No earlier, no later. He pushes open the door to the Three Broomsticks at exactly seven-thirty, and he immediately sees Harry. He’s sitting at a table that he’s reserved for himself and Draco, knitting his fingers together, with a dumb smile on his face. Fucking idiot. Fucking beautiful idiot.

 

Harry hears the door chimes, sitting up to see who’s entered the space, and when he makes eye contact with Draco, his face turns bright red. Harry is wearing a big knit sweater with a dress shirt on underneath, and Draco nearly cries. The collar of the dress shirt sticks up on one side. He’s just too dorky for his own good.

 

“How long have you been waiting?” Draco asks, as he approaches the table. He pulls out the chair across from Harry and sits down.

 

“Twenty minutes,” Harry says, somewhat nervously. “I got anxious that you’d get here early and I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

 

Draco shakes his head and smiles. “You’re ridiculous, Potter.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry adds. “Call me ‘Potter,’ I mean. If we’re going to do this again.”

 

“Already planning the next date when we’ve only just started this one?” Draco asks. “Alright, that’s fair enough. Harry.”

 

Harry pushes up his glasses and smiles. “Draco.”

 

“Can I… uh, fix your collar? It’s bugging me,” Draco mumbles, and Harry smirks at him and nods. Draco leans forward, reaching his hands out and folding Harry’s shirt collar back to normal-shirt-collar-position. Harry looks away, and when Draco notices the pink on his cheeks, he pats Harry on the shoulder and slides his arm away.

 

Madam Rosemerta sets two butterbeers down at their table, nodding to them. “If you need anything else, you know to call me.”

 

When she walks away, Draco turns to Harry and asks, “did you order butterbeers before I got here?”

 

Harry shrugs. “It took some of the stress off of my shoulders. If you didn’t want butterbeer, I’m sorry about that, though.” He takes a deep breath. “Just curious, are you nervous at all?”

 

“Nervous?” Draco asks, assuming that it had been a given that he was petrified. “Yeah. Also, don’t worry about the butterbeer. I would’ve ordered it anyways.”

 

“Me too.” He says quietly. “I’m glad we’re both nervous, though, and that it’s not just me.”

 

Draco takes a long sip of butterbeer, noticing and falling in love with the little details about Harry. How he adjusts his glasses every few minutes, the few freckles dancing across his neck and cheeks, his _eyes,_ that wonderful emerald color. His nervous fidgeting, always wearing the same pair of sneakers, the look on his face when Draco said his first name, there’s so many things to love about him. He just hopes that Harry feels the same about him.

 

Then again, Harry did semi-suggest that they could have dates in the future. Not to mention the _blushing._ What a nerd. Draco smiles involuntary (see, Harry, look what you do to him), and Harry smiles back, and the world feels like it’s fallen in place.

 

Harry reaches out, putting his hand over the hand that Draco’s holding his butterbeer glass with, and Draco can tell that he thinks he’s done something wrong as he immediately jerks his hand back. But Draco just grabs Harry’s hand as he pulls it away, and Harry softens immediately, and Draco watches as an “I can’t fucking believe this is happening” smile forms on Harry’s face. They lace their hands together, and Draco thinks his heart might shoot through the ceiling.

 

“You’re cute, y’know?” Draco says, and he laughs when Harry responsively burns up.

 

“Shut up,” Harry responds, “you’re not too bad yourself.”

 

“Damn right I’m not too bad myself,” Draco laughs.

 

He wants to spend the rest of his life in this day.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hope u liked it!!! :-)


End file.
